


The Waystone Cafe

by LadyLackless



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bast is unhelpful, Chronicler is chronically confused, Gen, I hope you like people talking cuz DAMN, Innuendo, Kote is angsty as hell, and dialogue, so much dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLackless/pseuds/LadyLackless
Summary: In which Bast is a barista, Chronicler is a ghostwriter, and Kvothe is as angsty as ever. Also known as the coffeeshop AU that nobody asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the trash party

“I made it extra foamy. Just the way you like it.” The handsome young man behind the counter winked and handed the woman her latte.

As the customer exited the café, Kote turned to his impish assistant and scowled. “Bast, I told you not to come on to the customers.”

“I already came on her, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh God. Too much information, Bast. Too much information.”

Bast laughed and pushed his dark hair back off his forehead. “A little flirting helps business. People like it. Why do you think we’ve been so crowded lately?” He gestured to the three customers sitting at café tables.

“This is hardly crowded.”

“Therefore you need to step up your game, Reshi. Ladies like redheads. And gentlemen do too.” Bast waggled his eyebrows.

“Let’s change the subject.” Kote chuckled. “Look, there’s Devan Lochees.”

“Why don’t you like him, Reshi?”

“He hardly counts as a customer. Buys one cup of tea and sits there for hours, helping himself to our cream and sugar.”

“Hey, give the man a break. He’s a penniless artist.”

Kote huffed. “Do poets count as artists, really?”

“He’s not a poet, he’s a ghostwriter.”

“Even worse.”

Bast grinned. “You should talk to him, Reshi. I bet a lot of people would buy a book about your life.”

“Ha.” Kote took out a rag and began wiping the countertop for the eighth time that day. “As if.”

 

The late-afternoon sunlight slanted in through the bay windows, lending mellow warmth to the café’s squashy chairs and small mismatched tables. A corner of sun struck the wooden counter at the back of the shop, behind which Kote stood, cleaning the espresso machine. The bell chimed and   
Bast walked in, holding a paper coffee cup.

“Just did a little reconnaissance,” Bast said with a demonic grin.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Completely.” Bast took a sip from the cup, then pulled a face. “Unfortunately, their coffee is pretty decent.”

Kote sighed.

“Reshi, if we want to stay in business we need to get serious about taking down the competition.”

“Bast…”

“I don’t understand why people still go to that place.” Bast scowled and tossed the cup in the trash. “Their coffee is ridiculously overpriced and the baristas are condescending. And the owner’s name is Ambrose. Have you ever met an Ambrose who was not a pompous ass?”

“Bast…”

“Yet the hipsters keep going there. Even though our coffee is cheaper and, like, better.” Bast shook his head. “And if you want to screw up your coffee by putting all that hazelnut shit in it, I will still serve it to you without any bullying. When I was in that Jakis place the dude in front of me bought a spiced latte and the barista made some idiotic comment about how ‘real men drink real coffee.’ I couldn’t believe it. Gender stereotyping and fragile masculinity at their worst.”

“Bast…”

They were interrupted by the sound of Devan Lochees clearing his throat from his seat by the window. “Ah, if you want to compete with Jakis Coffee…”

“Oh, we do,” Bast said wickedly.

Devan scratched his head. “Well, maybe you should play some music here.”

“Um,” Bast said.

“Just a little something to provide ambiance. Cover up the noise of the espresso machine.” 

Wordlessly, Kvothe turned and disappeared into the back room.

“It’s a bit of a sore spot,” Bast whispered in a confiding tone. “He used to play guitar, you know.”

“Oh? Like a… busker?”

“Well, yes.” Bast grinned. “He played a lot of the popular stuff. Some folk music too, ‘Tinker Tanner’ and whatever. But he mainly played classical. Ravel, Handel, Bach. He had a gift.”

Devan leaned over his laptop, intent. “What stopped him?”

Bast opened his mouth just as a commanding voice echoed from the back room. “Bast!”

“Sorry, got to go.” With a cheeky wink, Bast disappeared.

 

Evening settled over the Waystone. At six p. m. Devan Lochees retreated homeward, his backpack over one shoulder and a hangdog expression on his face. At seven Bast turned off the neon Open sign and closed the shutters. At eight a woman with long dark hair paused before the cafe and peered at the hours of business painted on the window. She adjusted the instrument case she carried—something large, perhaps a harp—and continued on her way.


	2. Chapter 2

“Maybe we should go shirtless at work,” Bast said the next morning.

Kote carefully set his coffee down and turned to his assistant. “What?”

“You know, to steal customers from Jakis Coffee. Build our ‘brand.’ Use some sex appeal. Drum up a little… business.”

“It is too early for this conversation,” Kvothe said.

“Think about it,” Bast said. “We’ve got to pay back that loan shark somehow.”

“There’s no need to worry. Devi and I have an understanding.”

“Whatever,” Bast said. “I’m going to go pick up the bean shipment.” He went to the door, brushing past Devan Lochees.

“Hi,” Devan said, approaching the counter.

Kote smiled. “The usual?”

“Yeah. Listen… I’m really sorry about yesterday.”

“No need to mention it.”

“Oh.” Devan took the mug of tea. He was turning to go when the bell chimed and a middle-aged woman with long dark hair came in the door.

There plenty of people whose beauty can be explained. They have smooth skin and symmetrical features, and they act like they are beautiful; they flirt, and dress well, and you admire them. But there are some people whose beauty cannot be explained. You look at them, and wonder why they draw your gaze; why an asymmetrical nose, for example, could seem so enchanting between two slightly-too-large eyes. You look at them, and you do not understand their beauty, and yet you cannot look away.

All this is to say that Devan found himself staring. The woman smiled at him and almost winked. Blushing, he coughed and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, gentlemen. I just came by to leave my card.” 

Kote said nothing. Devan smiled too widely and then, realizing, overcorrected with a frown.

The woman set a business card on the counter. “I’m a harpist and I’d love to play in a charming little coffee shop like yours.” She smiled. “Have you ever thought of hiring some live music every once in a while? Harp makes for good background music. And my rates are very reasonable.”

“Um,” Devan said.

Kote did not move. After a moment the woman’s gaze grew more intense and she pulled away from the counter. “Kvothe? Kvothe Arlidenson?”

Kote said nothing.

“Oh my God, it’s really you.” The woman’s eyes had become very wide and she stood very still with an expression of surprise, almost pain. “I thought maybe—but I wasn’t expecting—what are you doing as a _barista?_ ”

Kote let out a small tuh of air and said, very quietly, “Excuse me.” Then he disappeared into the back room.

“Well,” the woman said. She looked over her shoulder, once, as she left. 

Devan read the business card. Diane Selas, harpist. He sipped his tea.

 

Bast returned a half-hour later and unloaded the bags of coffee beans into the back room. He pushed aside the curtain to peer into the shop. Devan sat in his usual seat, fidgeting and failing to write. Kote was nowhere to be seen. 

Devan gestured to him. Bemused, Bast slouched over. 

“A woman came in here. I’ve never seen Kote so stiff.”

Bast laughed. “Stiff, hm?”

“I meant stiff in the sense of startled,” Devan said. “He didn’t say a word. Disappeared right after she left.”

“Must be upstairs. Dealing with the, ah, stiffness,” Bast said.

Devan scowled. “Diane Selas. Who is she?”

“Never heard of her,” Bast said, leaning to examine Devan’s tea. “Why do you put so much milk in this stuff? Wait, did you say Diane?”

“Yes—”

“I’ve got to go,” Bast said, and stood.

“Oh no you don’t. Not this again.” Devan grabbed Bast’s wrist. “Who is she?”

“An old, er, friend,” Bast said. “From Julliard.”

“Julliard? The elite music school?”

“No, the clown college,” Bast spat, and shook Devan off with surprising strength. “Of course the music school. Don’t touch me.”

“Sorry,” Devan said. “I just can’t help myself. I mean, what a story.”

Bast hesitated in front of the curtain to the back room. “You know—you’re welcome to keep snooping, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe you’ll wake him up from this mood he’s in. And if Denna’s here—”

“Who?” Devan said. 

But there was only the swishing of the curtain to answer him.

 

Bast climbed the stairs to the little apartment above the Waystone. He knocked three times, then said, “Reshi?” There was no answer. After a moment he tried the door. It was unlocked.

Inside, the spare studio smelled of books and linen. There was a desk against one wall and a narrow bed against the other. At the foot of the bed Bast could see the redwood chest.

Kote was slumped on the bed, his shoulders propped against the wall.

“You all right?”

Kote said nothing. His eyes were wide and wet. Bast sat beside him and patted Kote’s forearm. “Ah—there, there.”

“You’re terrible at comforting people, Bast.” Kote chuckled and covered his face with his hands.

“Sorry, Reshi. I usually only offer sympathy via sex.”

Kote laughed. 

“Listen—Reshi.” Bast shifted on the bed. “If you still have feelings for her, why didn’t you say so? Fall at her feet and apologize for all your—mistakes, or whatever?” When Kote was silent Bast struggled on. “Don’t pretend you weren’t quite a lover back in school. Why can’t you use that silver tongue and woo her to your side again?”

“It’s too late for all that, Bast. Besides, you know I’m retired.”

“From singing? Or wooing?”

“From tonguing of all kinds,” Kote said. 

Startled, Bast laughed.

“Go on now, Bast.”

Bast stood. In the doorway he paused and looked back. “You sure you’re okay?”

Kote smiled. “Aren’t I always?”

 

Across town the dark-haired woman stood in front of Temerant City’s only other coffeehouse. She narrowed her eyes at the sign—“Jakis Coffee”—and twisted the ring on her finger. After a moment she hefted her harp case and went in.

 

Downstairs at the Waystone Café, Devan watched as a woman with short strawberry hair tapped her fingertips on the counter. She met his eyes and winked. “Terrible service here, eh?,” she said, just as Bast burst through the curtain. 

“Devi!” he cried. “Here for some coffee, you fiend?”

“What makes me a fiend?” Devi said.

“Oh, I know you’re absolutely fiendish about demanding those interest payments from Kote,” Bast said, winking as he fixed an espresso. “If you know what I mean.” Devi blinked at him and he pumped his hips for effect. “Interest payments.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Devan said.

“Ha! I would, if that finicky redhead let me get anywhere near him,” Devi said. “How have you been? Any good lays recently?” Bast chuckled and replied in a low voice. Devan hunched over his laptop and tried not to hear them compare pubic shaving techniques, or whatever the sexually hyperactive chatted about as small talk. 

After a moment Devi picked up the harpist’s card. “Diane Selas? Oh wait—Denna?”

Devan sat up.

“Yup,” Bast said. “She came in here today and asked if he wanted to hire a harpist.”

“Shiiiit,” Devi said. “Denna’s here? In Temerant?”

Bast shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Who,” Devan said, “Is. Denna.”

Bast smiled at him unhelpfully. “You met her. The harpist. I guess she’s going by Diane now.”

“Bast, so help me God—”

“Kote’s ex-lover,” Bast said. 

“You could put it that way,” Devi said. "If you were inclined to exaggerate."

"I mean, it was an extended emotional dry hump. That counts," Bast said. “Anyway, I wonder what she’s doing in a little town like this.”

“Lots of people come to Temerant City for a fresh start,” Devi said significantly. 

Silence fell. Devan twitched. Then he fidgeted. Then he slammed his fist on the table. “Will someone please tell me what is going on.”

Devi turned toward him and cocked an eyebrow infuriatingly. “Oh, nothing’s going on. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Nothing to see here.”

“Sure,” Bast said, smirking. “After all, lots of people have dark and enigmatic pasts.” 

The two disappeared into the back room. Devan considered flipping the table.

 

Evening comes early in a small town. Kote closed the shop and walked out into the dusky streets, as he often did. The air was cool, and here and there lighted windows shone against the twilight. He walked slowly, with his head down. Eventually he found himself on Main Street, quiet and still on a weekday night. One shop seemed to be doing good business that evening: laughing groups of customers passed in and out of the swinging door, and through the window Kote could see tall copper tables and gleaming barstools. He paused outside and bemusedly considered ordering a coffee.

Then someone pushed open the door, and from inside came sudden the rippling sound of a harp. A singer’s voice entered, high and pure. He stood for a moment, transfixed, before the door swung shut and cut off the music. Then with dull steps he turned and walked away.

 

The next morning Bast slumped into the chair across from Devan. “Red alert, sound the sirens. Denna started playing for Jakis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks Hayden for the kick in the pants
> 
> Also have y'all noticed the sudden increase in the number of KKC fanfics on this site?? I am stoked as hell


	3. Chapter 3

“Look, I’d really love to assist you,” Devan said, “but first you need to tell me what I’m getting into.”

They were standing in front of the Waystone. Bast pushed him toward the door.

“Bast. Who is this lady? Why is Kote so bound up about her? What is going on?”

“You don’t need to know what’s going on,” Bast said, shoving. “Just ask the questions.”

“He’s going to disappear into the back room.”

“So chase him.”

“Bast—”

“Look, dude,” Bast said, taking a break from the shoving. “Why do you think I’ve been giving you tea on a discount, huh? And sometimes free croissants? For weeks I’ve been encouraging you to hang around this place. Cause you’re a fucking ghostwriter. So go in there and do your job.”

“I really don’t see why he’s going to respond to questions about some old pop song.”

Bast bent until his face was nearly touching Devan’s. The man could be quite intimidating, Devan reflected. There was something shifty about Bast, something unknowable, some shadow or veil separating him from the rest of the world. His eyes held dangerous implications. “Listen,” Bast growled. “Go in there and ask.”

Devan went in.

Behind the counter, Kote glanced at him and began to fill a mug with hot water. “Looked like you managed to irritate Bast out there,” Kote said, mock-casual. “What was that all about?”

“Uh,” Devan said. He glanced over his shoulder; Bast glowered at him through the window. A bolt of inspiration struck. “…He was trying to keep me from asking you questions.”

“What questions?” Kote said, handing him the tea.

“…about that old song, ‘Savien,’” Devan said.

“Why would you ask me about an old song,” Kote said evenly.

“Because… I think… you… wrote it?” Devan said.

“I did not.”

Devan took a steadying breath. This kind of thing was, after all, part of his job. “Then why are you so twitchy right now?”

“I’m not twitchy,” Kote said.

Devan fidgeted. Kote raised an eyebrow and began to wipe the counter.

Devan thought about the song. Seemed like everyone was humming it a decade ago, back when that style of music was popular. It had a blues-y, folk-y feeling and a catchy bass line. And the singer’s voice: high and melancholy. An exceptional voice, really. He could almost hear it now, singing about a woman’s sorrow. What was the line? “The bitter look in your green eyes, at this last of our goodbyes”—or something. All about the red-haired man she’d had to leave behind.

Devan looked down at the counter. The Selas woman’s card had disappeared. The singer’s voice… the green-eyed man… somewhere in Devan’s mind, a chord progression reached its triumphal conclusion. “You didn’t write the song. Diane Selas did. And she sang it about you.”

Kote’s breathing stuttered. After a moment he resumed wiping the counter, his eyes following the motion of his hand. “Clever. How’d you figure that out?”

“I’m a ghostwriter,” Devan said. “It’s my job to delve into people’s secrets. And”—dramatic pause—“I’d like to delve into yours.”

“Wow, Devan,” Bast said, “I didn’t know you fancied my Reshi. I might have to chaperon you two. Watch out for any… delving.”

“Bast,” Devan hissed.

Behind the counter, Kote frowned. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Came in the back,” Bast said, and winked.

“Did you get the bean shipment—”

“Uh-uh, no changing the subject,” Bast said. “I’m with Devan. I think a little delving is in order.”

Devan drew a steadying breath. It was good to have Bast back on his side. 

Kote, on the other hand, looked unnaturally pale. His freckles stood out red against his skin. “And what’s in it for you, Bast? Why this sudden interest in a subject that you know pains me?”

“Because,” Bast said, “if you retell the story, if you have to listen to yourself tell it, you might realize how stupid you are not to rush off this very minute to serenade her back into your arms.”

Kote disappeared into the back room. The white cloth fell to the floor.

“Fucking hell,” Bast said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about coffee shops I learned from the webcomic Questionable Content
> 
> sorry if my knowledge is... questionable


	4. Chapter 4

Outside the Waystone, the spring air lay warm and heavy over the small town. 

“Aren’t you worried about him?” Devan said, wincing as Bast pulled him toward Bast’s battered truck.

Bast nodded. “We don’t have much time.” 

“Why?” Devan asked, clambering into the passenger seat of the pickup.

“I have a hunch”—Bast gunned the engine—“that Denna won’t be here long.”

“Oh,” said Devan. “So, uh, what’s the plan?”

Bast smiled, all teeth. “Time to pay Devi a visit.”

 

Devan frowned at the rusted stairwell. “C’mon,” Bast said from halfway up. That nasty smell was meat, Devan decided, as he tested one step. Who the heck would choose to live above a butcher’s shop? He looked up at Bast, who was pounding on the door at the top of the stairs, and wondered why he’d gotten into this mess.

“Crissake,” Bast said, and beat the door until the walls vibrated. “Open up! It’s me!”

After a minute or three Devi opened the door, holding her dressing gown closed with one hand. A man peered around her and then hustled past them, his shoes in his hands.

“Um,” Devan said. 

Bast grinned. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“You better be,” Devi said, stretching. “Come on in.”

Inside, a sagging desk rested on dingy carpeting. An old bookshelf stood in the corner, its shelves slumping beneath the weight of hundreds of paperbacks. Behind the desk stood a stained door and a large safe. Devan eyed the safe nervously. It was definitely big enough to hold a body.

“I’m here because the Denna situation has become more fucked than usual,” Bast said. “She started playing her harp over at Jakis’s place.”

“Shit,” Devi said.

“Yup.” Bast sighed. “I tried to get him to talk to Devan about it—”

“You some kind of marriage counselor?” Devi said to Devan.

“Uh, no, I’m a ghostwriter.” 

Devi snorted.

“Anyway, that didn’t seem to work,” Bast said. “So I was wondering if you’d consider returning his music books. Maybe the sight of them will re-inspire him.”

“Wait, what?” said Devan.

“When Kote stormed out of Julliard, he gave all his sheet music to me,” Devi said. “I was the only other who played as well as he did.” She smiled wickedly. “Or better. Depending who you ask.”

“So…” Bast said, with a winsome grin.

“I don’t know, what’s in it for me?”

“The health and happiness of an old friend?”

“Eh. Kote pays his rent more reliably than Kvothe ever did.”

Bast scowled.

“Fine. But I expect you to pay a little… interest.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Devan said, “Aw, jeez.”

“What? That other guy couldn’t find the clitoris if it reared up and bit him.” Winking at Devan, Devi pulled Bast through the stained door.

 

“An hour? An entire hour?”

Bast started up the truck and tried to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“I mean, really, a whole hour.”

“If you want cunnilingus lessons, I’d be happy to—”

“No.” Devan scowled.

“Your loss,” Bast said. “At least we got the goods.”

Devan looked down at the bench seat, where an old milk crate full of papers jabbed into his side. “…Yeah.” The old truck had terrible suspension, and with every bounce the crate dug itself deeper into Devan’s ribs. 

After a moment Bast spoke. “Thanks.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“I know that Reshi isn’t really your project. And I appreciate your help.”

Devan shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know how much help I’ve been, really.”

“You find him interesting.”

“Yes. Fascinating.”

“And it shows. That’s a lot. That’s everything.” Bast sighed. “I just want to give him an audience. He was a storyteller, before. And when a storyteller goes silent…” 

“What happened to him?”

Bast shook himself and grinned his usual frightening grin. “Oh, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to keep you hungry for it. You’ll search. You’ll wonder. And you’ll wake him up.”

Devan sat for a moment, considering. Then the little truck clattered over yet another pothole. He glared at Bast. “So, what—you’re just going give him this stuff and expect him to—open up?”

“Yup,” Bast said cheerily. 

“That’s not very subtle, is it?”

“Subtlety is overrated,” Bast said, as the truck skidded to a stop behind the Waystone.

 

In the back of the Waystone the dishwasher hummed; the baking supplies and crates of apples (“Damfine,” read the label) were neatly arrayed on their shelves. Between the oven and the racks of mismatched cups stood a rickety card table with two folding chairs. At this Kote sat, motionless. 

Devan cleared his throat uncomfortably. Kote raised his head.

“You,” he said, pointing one finger at Bast, “are an asshole.”

“Yup!” Bast said cheerily. “An asshole who wants you to be happy.”

“My happiness is none of your business,” Kote said.

Devan shifted.

“Look, Reshi. You’ve been even more mopey than usual since Denna arrived. Your pie-baking skills have declined, you aren’t reading anymore, and you never want to go out drinking like we used to.” Bast stepped near to his mentor. “Besides, you’re my—friend. Your happiness is my business.”

Kote looked down. “Bast…”

“You musicians love to show off anyway,” Bast said. “I know you love to have Devan chasing after your secrets. Speaking of which…” Bast beckoned to Devan, and after a moment Devan realized that he was supposed to pass the crate of music to Kote.

“What is this?”

“Your old music,” Bast said. “Got it from Devi.”

“What? But she told me she’d keep it safe, that she would protect it for me—She shouldn’t have given you this.”

“Well, he did have to—” Devan began.

“Shut up, Devan,” Bast said. He went on. “I guess Devi’s worried about you too.”

“Yeah right,” Kote said, running his fingers over the pages. “Devi only does anything if there’s something in it for her.”

“Well—” Devan began again. Bast glared at him. He stopped.

Kote was still looking at the music. Some of it was hand-written, Devan noticed, the notes scrawled in ballpoint pen on binder paper. But before he could look further Kote tidied the pages into a stack and turned it upside down. 

“Thank you. I guess.”

“Mm,” Bast said. “Your guitar is in your room, right? Let’s go up there and check it out.”

“That isn’t—”

Bast stood up, smiling just a little too wide—were his teeth quite normal? They almost seemed pointed, Devan thought—and gestured to the door. Something in Kote seemed to crumple and he followed the younger man up the stairs.

Devan had never seen the small studio apartment above the café before. It was rather grim, he decided. The tiny, barely-furnished room made Devi’s meat-stink apartment seem almost luxurious. Practically the only thing worth noticing in Kote’s room was a large, glossy wooden chest, beside which Kote now stood.

“In there?” Bast said. “Open her up. Bring out the ol’ six string! The axe! The, uh—”

“I threw the key into the ocean,” Kote said. “And it’s a quality lock—impossible to pick.”

“For crying out loud,” Bast said. “It’s like you’re trying to be difficult.”

Kote smirked and for a moment some animation returned to his face. “I was very thorough. I do good work.”

“But you still kept the guitar,” Bast said. “It’s in there. You wouldn’t have kept it if you didn’t want to get it out again."

Kote gave Bast a considering look.

Bast kicked the edge of the chest. “Just saw one end off. It’s not like this is super-strong magic wood or anything.”

“Hm.”

“I have a saw in the back of the pickup,” Bast said, helpfully. 

“Fuck,” Kote said. “Go ahead.”

 

Twenty minutes later the room smelled like sawdust. Bast was covered in sweat and grinning like a fiend. The end of chest fell to the floor with a clatter, and Bast stuck his arm in. He drew out a battered instrument case.

Kote took the case. He laid it on the bed and opened it slowly. Inside rested an acoustic guitar. Kote brushed his fingers against the strings and a soft, sour sound filled the room. He winced and reached for the pegs, then withdrew his hand. “This is no good.”

Bast, who had been watching expectantly, frowned. “What is it now?”

“I lost it. I can’t play again.”

“Why?”

“What does it matter. I’m an old man who gave up an old hobby. No one cares.”

Bast gave Devan an imploring look.

“I’m curious,” Devan said. “I care. And—pardon me—but it seems like you’re being a bit of a, uh…”

“Drama queen?” Bast supplied helpfully. 

Devan ignored this. “Your choices are mysterious to me, and I want to understand. Can you try to explain?”

Kote looked at him. After a moment he cleared his throat. “It takes a certain blind confidence to be a musician. Onstage you are entirely alone, yet watched by hundreds, thousands.” He paused, then spoke more strongly. “To play well you must feel the audience, sense each individual, their intake of breath, the waiting hush of the crowd… You play the audience like an instrument.

“But that awareness must be shaped and specified. If you lose confidence, if you surrender… then the audience plays you.” He looked down at the guitar. “Then everything is lost.”

 

“Well, you succeeded in making him cry,” Devan said, as they slunk down the stairs from Kote’s studio apartment.

“It’s a start,” Bast said cheerily. 

“What?”

“Crying is good for you,” Bast said. “It releases emotions. And it’s a slap in the face to the patriarchal conception of the ‘strong, silent man.’ You see, modern feminists consider the patriarchy to be harmful to all genders. Toxic masculinity causes—” 

“Okay,” Devan said, “but what are we going to do about Kote?”

“Oh I think we just have to wait,” Bast said. “Did you hear how his voice got all deep and declamatory at the end there? The story is returning. He sees you as an audience. We camp out here”—he gestured to the little warm café, empty of customers on a weekday afternoon—“and he’ll be down any minute to continue.”

Two hours and five cups of tea later Kote had not appeared. Bast was mostly silent. The only thing that had been achieved, as far as Devan could tell, was the conversion of tea into piss, courtesy of his bladder.

After his third visit to the tiny (and foul) bathroom in the back of the café, Devan stood washing his hands and cursing Bast and his obsession. This was ridiculous, really. Harassing the poor man wasn’t going to do anything. And, to boot, there were no more towels in the paper towel dispenser. Typical. He stood flicking the water off his hands and contemplating wiping them on his pants when he heard a faint sound.

At first he thought a neighbor must be playing the radio. But the sound stopped and started, and he realized someone was playing the same sequence of notes over and over, practicing a tricky passage. Each time the musician got a little farther. But each time the music stopped in a jangle of notes.

Then there was a long pause. When the music restarted it had a completely different tone. Devin knew nothing about music, but to him this sounded like grief. There were no pauses now, no repetition, just a continually unfurling ribbon of sound, faint and plaintive and unscripted. He stood there in the bathroom for what felt like an hour. When the music finally stopped he stepped out.

Bast was sitting very still. He whispered, “Did you hear—“

“Yes—“

There were slow footsteps on the stairs. Both men froze.

Kote appeared in the doorway, looking utterly drained. “Bastards.” He went behind the bar and began, very slowly, to prepare a cup of coffee.

For once Bast was quiet. Kote made a second coffee and a cup of tea and came over with the tray.

“It’s not that interesting of a story. So I might as well get it over with.”

Hurriedly, Devin reached for his laptop bag.

“No, put that shit away.” Kote took a long drink of coffee. “I’ll make a deal. I tell this story, and then you leave me alone, all right?”

Devin looked at Bast, who nodded.

Kote sighed. “It’s Denna you’re curious about?”

“Yes!” Devan said. “Well—anything.”

Kote chuckled. “All right, let me tell you in great and exhaustive detail about my preferred student bars. I’ll describe my favorite alcohols and the card games I played—” He looked at Devin and frowned. “Stop looking so interested. That was supposed to be a joke. No one cares about that.”

“Ha ha,” Devin said.

Kote looked down at his coffee. “Ha—the Eolian. There were good parts about college too. But I spent so much time scrambling for money I didn’t drink as much as I would have liked. At least, not until I got that scholarship—from that one guy, oh god his wife hated me so much, the whole thing was so weird—” He shook his head. “Denna. Let’s get through this so I can get Bast off my back.”

“College is expensive, and Denna—Denna didn’t have a scholarship, the way I did. So she—well. There are many ways for a young woman to work her way through college, and I thought she should have chosen any other way but the one she did. Become a barista, or a secretary, or a babysitter, for Tehlu’s sake… But those jobs didn’t earn enough. Not for tuition, no. And—she liked the work. That’s what I didn’t understand."

Devan frowned. “What was her job?”

Kote looked down at his coffee. Bast cleared his throat. “Isn’t it obvious? She was a sex worker.”

“An escort,” Kote said, “a high-priced one. Sometimes men and women paid her just for her company, sometimes they paid to—well.” He cleared his throat. “She would say that emphasizing that she was a high-class escort instead of an ordinary call girl further illustrates my own issues with sex work. 

“I should have gotten over it. Instead I told her with my words and actions again and again that I thought she could do better, that I thought she was—selling something she shouldn’t sell. When I had no right to tell her so.”

Devan coughed. “I mean, most people expect monogamy from a girlfriend, right?”

Bast rolled his eyes.

“Oh, we never dated,” Kote said. “There were signs she might have been willing. But I was too cowardly to ask.” He sat for a long moment, biting his lip. “After years of friendship I became almost understanding about the sex work. Understanding enough to pretend I didn’t care, which I told myself was the first step to not caring. But when she—She began seeing a new client. A client was a longtime patron of the arts. A client who—didn’t always treat her well. And I confronted her with the same old shit—‘you’re better than that, your music is better than that.’ And she, well—she hadn’t been doing so well. And that was kind of the last straw. 

“She left the school. And I never forgave myself.”

“Wow,” Devan said.

Kote smiled. “Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?”

“No—well, yes,” Devan said. “But also, so—ordinary.”

“But Reshi, you’re leaving out all the good parts,” Bast said. He turned to Devan. “Once he jumped off a roof.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha fuck me I don't know how to write anything except dialogue


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, fuck,” Bast said. It was evening and the café was dark except for the streetlight outside, which shone through the bay window and cast a dim yellow light across Bast’s angular face.

Devan eyed him. In the past week he had seen Bast happy and angry and filled with manic energy. Never had he seen Bast so—dejected.

“We could say whatever we want, bring him all his old music, anything. But he’s never going to just talk to her.” Bast’s voice rose and with a curse Devan couldn’t quite understand he slammed his hand down on the table. There was a cracking sound and the table began to tilt. “Anhouen,” Bast whispered, and propped the broken table leg against a chair.

“I thought he looked better at the end there.”

“Better? He looked defeated.” Bast sighed, and when he looked up at Devan his eyes were bleak and frightening. “Forget this. I should never have meddled. He’s never going to go looking for her.”

“You forget,” said a silky voice from the darkness, “that perhaps she is also looking for him.”

Denna stepped into the dim light. 

Really, she wasn’t all that beautiful, Devan thought. Sure, there was something lovely in the dark sweep of her hair, punctuated by a single streak of silver. And her face had a certain sideways charm, a hidden sweetness in the wide mouth and large crooked nose. And her eyes—well, to him they seemed like dangerous eyes, but he could see why Kvothe would be into that.

She winked and he realized he had again been staring.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “Please help me find our mutual friend.”

“How—how did you get in here?” Devan said, as Bast stood and disappeared into the back room.

Denna smiled wickedly. “Breaking and entering is the least of my sins.”

Bast returned a moment later. “He’s not in his apartment.”

“I know,” Denna said in a low voice. “I checked.”

“Maybe he went for a walk,” Devan said.

Denna stood still. After a moment she nodded and went to open the door. Just as the door chimed she paused and turned back toward them. “Your plan might have worked better than you thought. And gentlemen?”

Bast said nothing. Devin coughed. “Yes?”

“You might want to change the locks on the back door. And the back window. And the window of Kote’s apartment. They’re all faulty.” She smiled, a grin to match Bast’s in savagery. “I checked.”

“Shit,” Bast said, when she had gone. “I am aroused but also, like, a tiny bit afraid.”

“This is you wanted, right?” Devan said. 

“A fear boner?” Bast said.

“What? No. I meant that she’ll find him, and then they’ll have to talk.”

“Yes.” Bast’s grin was wide and frightening. He leaned across the tilting table and laid his long fingers over Devan’s hand. “Well now, ghostwriter, are you going to write this all down?”

Devan cautiously pulled his hand away. “Most of what he told me is too normal to be usable. And most of what you told me…” He shrugged. “No one would believe it.”

“Hm. I still believe there’s a book in there,” Bast said. “Who knows, I might have to be the one to write it.”

Behind him the café door chimed.

 

Kvothe left his apartment in the periwinkle light of a peaceful evening. His path was meandering, as though he sought to convince himself he had no final goal. Still, slowly and steadily he walked toward Jakis Coffee. 

He went in. There was a little stage set up in the window but no one on it. He ordered a coffee and sat at one of the round copper tables. After a while the harpist came in. He sipped his coffee and clapped after every song. At the end of her set she put down aside her harp and stepped down from the little platform.

“Usually I take my breaks outside,” she said, sliding into the chair across from him.

“Hello, Denna.”

She smiled and took a sip of his coffee without asking.

“I have some—things, to return to you.” Kvothe handed her a sheaf of papers. “Those compositions you gave to me for safekeeping. I’m sorry it took me so long to return them.”

She nodded, looking at him, waiting.

“And—I’m sorry I was such a whorephobic little shit, Denna. I’m sorry was so quick to judge, and I’m sorry it took me so long to apologize. And I’m sorry I never told you at the time that I had feelings for you.”

Her face softened and she looked down at the sheet music in her hands. “I knew, Kvothe. And I’m sorry, too.” She twisted the ring on her finger. “I’ll be leaving soon. I have a date with the London Philharmonic.” 

“The Phil—”

“Yes. I finally did a proper audition, you know, and they liked my concerto without me even taking my clothes off.” She smiled, wearily, and pushed the sheet music back across the table. “These are for you, Kvothe. They always were.”

“Really? My god, Denna, I—I never even played them—” He looked at them again, really looked this time, and as his eyes ran across the lines of notes his right hand began tapping an unconscious rhythm against the tabletop. Denna smiled. 

He looked up and cleared his throat. “I’ve started practicing again. Bast made me.”

“He’s a good kid,” Denna said.

“Yeah. Better than I deserve.”

“Hm. You have changed, I think.”

“I fucking hope so,” Kote said, and for the first time in the conversation his voice took on an edge of emotion.

She glanced at the clock in the corner. “It’s time for my next set, Kvothe, and then I have—a date.”

“All right,” Kvothe said. “I’ll stick around just a little longer. Have a good night.”

“You too.” She stood up, then rested her hand on the sheet music for a moment. “And you should think about hiring some live music. If not now, then sometime in the future. After all, old friends have a habit of showing up when you least expect them.”

 

Kvothe walked homeward through the dark streets, a sheaf of papers held against his chest. When he reached the little café it was warm and smelled of pastry, and its familiarity felt like neither a prison nor a punishment. It was long past closing and the café was dark save for a lamp that burned in one corner. There Bast sat deep in conversation with a tiny pale person whose hair glowed in a golden halo against the lamplight. When she looked up at Kvothe her smile lit the room like sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah! Thanks for reading.
> 
> This little experiment was mainly to have fun with modernizing the characters. Maybe next time I should go for less talking and more sex. Oh well.


End file.
